The Carer
by sskyward41
Summary: A brief story of a donor and his carer, Kathy.
Even now I struggle to understand the meaning of Hailsham. That old brick building, cast out in the far reaches of the countryside. I still picture it sometimes, coiled in ivy up to the very top windows. From out in the gardens it almost seemed as if the world was attempting to tear it back down. To reclaim the brick back in to the earth.

I never did make it out of there. Not truly. A part of me has always remained like a ghost roaming its halls. It is a part of me as real and as tangible as the those they cut from my body. Three of them now. My carer says that most donors complete well before their fourth.

It feels strange that I won't go through the post-operative routine again. Usually, after the pain of the donation wears away I sit with my carer and we talk for hours. I enjoy that. All the words spoken in those sterile, white wards of the hospital. Everything real else seems to far away. Somehow I still think that I will live to have those moments again.

Of course, it's not really a hospital. It's designed to look like an approximation of one, but in truth they only perform one type of procedure. Donation. The doctors you pass in the hall have one task to complete, and perhaps that's why they can never look you in the eye. If you've given a donation you'll know what I mean. Its the same way they can only refer to you as a number, rather than a name.

My name is Kevin.

As I write this I sit in the confines of a bedsit, awaiting the final call. I can barely move. Barely breathe. They never tell you what they've taken out, but I can tell the last one was particularly serious. I hope whoever has it is enjoying it. Treating it as it deserves to be treated. Giving it plenty of exercise. Taking it out for dinner.

Funny, right? Kathy - that's my carer - says it's good I still have a sense of humour. I feel it fading. My thoughts have turned to the past. As I sit here incapacitated I often wonder why I didn't run when I had all my parts inside me. Why I didn't try to find somewhere to hide. Kathy used to say that when donors are born they change something deep inside us so we have no urge to run. I don't believe that. In my dreams I run forever.

Kathy came round to see me yesterday. She presses me for stories from Hailsham. I can't give her what she wants. I just shrug and look away, over and over. I'm surprised she hasn't given up on me yet.

"It must have been very different after us," she said. I only started a few years after her yet she makes me feel like a little kid.

I shook my head.

"I suppose the gardens were still the same?"

I didn't answer. Just looked out window towards the stark, blue, winters sky.

"You don't feel like talking?"

"Do you like puzzles?" I asked eventually.

Kathy looked surprised. She actually gave a small, bemused smile. "I suppose so."

"Everything seems like a puzzle to me. I think about how things had only been so slightly different..." I waved away the thought and picked up the steaming mug of decaffeinated coffee. It felt warm in my hands. A small gift imparted from my carer.

"What do you mean?" Kathy asked, leaning forward.

I took a sip of the drink. "Forget it. I could spend all day feeling sorry for myself. I do most of the time." I tried to laugh but fell into coughing. Everything inside me was pained.

"I'm here to listen," Kathy said. She placed her hand on mine and our eyes met. I looked away, a little embarrassed at the tears which had begun to form.

"I just think..." I began. My voice suddenly trembling uncontrollably. I tried to find my words. "It's like the people you see out in the street. They don't have to worry about things like this. They live a normal life and work and fall in love. Get married and have kids."

Kathy nodded. "But they're not donors."

"But you," I cut in. "You were. You were meant to be like this."

"Kevin," Kathy said with a little pain colouring her voice. "You shouldn't listen to rumours."

"But they're not rumours, are they? You wrote that book and so they let you off. You got deferred because all the normal people felt sorry for you."

"Kevin," She said again, then fell to silence.

I held the rest of my words. I had skated on thin ice and was lucky she hadn't left straight away. You aren't meant to discuss things you hear whispered in the halls of the donation centres.

"I'm sorry," I muttered. "I can't help it."

"It's OK," she said, and forced a smile. "I suppose I can't deny it forever. I'm getting older and I'm still here and people are going to speak. It's true. I've never been called to donate, and I'm a lot older than the people who are completing."

"Because of the book," I said softly.

"Possibly. Nobody ever told me the reason why."

"And that's the puzzle." My hands felt like ice. I placed them back around the coffee cup. "Why do they set us apart? Me from you. Carers to Donors. Donors to everyone else out there."

"I don't know," said Kathy. "I really don't. All I can do is be here for you."

I didn't know what else to say after that. I read the book. You probably did to. Even if you didn't buy it there were copies everywhere. Laying discarded in cafes. Stacked up in charity shops. The only place they didn't have it was on the book shelf of the donation centre library.

Even selling a million copies of a book didn't move Kathy out of the program completely. She's still here, stuck in system, watching people like me complete. I still can't help but feel that her being here means there's hope.

Isn't there always hope?


End file.
